The water ripples, In a blink of dancing lights, No, not stars Not a lake Nor some soft country pond high with reeds But a puddle, Filling the worn concrete, Eroded by last night’s rain Finally after months of winter storms It creases against the traffic Folding surface patterns with endless vibration The rush hour brings. A pigeon, A city patchwork of feathers, Neither grey nor white A murky hybrid of light and shadow Drinks from the swell of its reflection Beak to beak Like impressionist art Then lazily withdrawals to an overhang of forgotten cables As a kitchen porter curses the bins And tosses a cigarette butt into the water Copyright ©RMC March 2021 Photo by Anthony Tyrrell on Unsplash
Mistyroads 